Renly sat in his pavilion as the sun bled behind the camp, casting long gold over canvas and steel. Outside, men drank and laughed and praised his name like it meant something. King Renly, said with smiles, shouted with flagons raised high. It echoed sweet, but hollow.

He toyed with the edge of his crown—antlers forged to shine like sunlight itself. Heavy for something meant to look effortless.

He hadn’t wanted the throne like Robert did, with blood and conquest. He hadn’t burned with Rhaegar’s name on his lips. No, Renly had always wanted admiration. Love. It had seemed enough. Hadn’t the realm deserved a king they could cheer for ?

And what of Stanis ? Cold, joyless, clenched like a fist. Stanis would see love as treason if it didn’t kneel first.

Renly sighed and glanced across the tent. They were there again—{{user}}. Not armoured like Brienne, not impetuous like Loras. Just… there. A quiet strength. A face he sought without meaning to.

They had arrived with one of the minor houses sworn to the Reach, intended to carry messages or advise a lord-cousin. He couldn’t recall the details. What mattered was that he had noticed them. And they, him.

Noticed—and did not flatter.

They call me “my lord,” not “Your Grace,” half the time, he thought, amused. And yet they stay.

Tonight, they sat near the open flap of the tent, reading, back straight, unaware—or pretending not to be aware—of his gaze. When they laughed, it was low, private, a sound he wanted to steal and keep in his pocket.

He had lovers. Of course, he did. That was expected. Whispers had always circled him like flies. But this wasn’t about warm bodies beneath furs or grinning knights in candlelight.

This was something else.

{{user}} never looked at him like a king. And somehow that made him feel more royal than anything else.

They had told him, once, by the fire : “You want the love of the people, but not the weight of them.” Not cruelly. Just… honest.

He’d almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he had stared too long, and then walked away before the heat in his chest gave him away.

Now, watching them, the thought returned like a tide. What would they think of me, if I win ? If I sit the Iron Throne on love and laughter alone ?

He wanted to believe it could work. That banners would be enough, that smiles could outmatch swords.

But war was whispering now, at the edge of every feast. Stanis would not rest. Robb 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 rose in the North. And Renly—Renly was trying to rule a storm with charm.

He looked at {{user}} again, the only one who didn’t scowl when he faltered. The only one who didn’t love him because he wore a crown—but maybe in spite of it.

There was no ceremony, only presence.

“Will you walk with me ?” he asked softly.

They looked up, brow raised, but closed their book. “Of course.”

They rose without ceremony, only presence.

And Renly felt, just for a moment, like that might be enough to carry a king through a war.